Beautiful Obscene
by Lassroyale
Summary: Written for a non-con, torture prompt on the kinkmeme: Chuck is kidnapped by an unknown enemy and raped and tortured. It's up to Casey to rescue him. Established relationship, graphic violence, non-con.
1. Replay

**A/N:**** This is being written for a prompt on the Chuck kinkmeme on livejournal. It's mostly done, but I haven't had the time to sit down and hammer out the fine details of the ending. I thought I'd share with you guys, use you as a sounding board if that's okay. This deals with explicit NON-CON. Please enjoy.**

**Beautiful Obscene – Prologue**

Chuck wakes with his head throbbing in erratic cacophony, cheek smashed against a threadbare mattress. The air is filled with the smell of mildew, sweat, and faintly, of human excrement. His mouth is wet, sticky, and when he sits up and touches two fingers to lips, they come away smeared red. Everything aches. There's a yawning blankness in his mind that he can't penetrate, can't remember, and the knowledge of missing time intensifies the sudden panic that rises in him.

Chuck stands. The floor lurches and shifts beneath his feet. He falls back onto mattress with a moan that shivers up his throat as the world spins sickeningly, like a tilt-o-whirl with broken gears. That's not what makes Chuck feel nauseous, however. What makes him feel weak, dizzy, sick with an almost primitive fear, is the fact that he's been stripped bare.

A television flickers to life in one corner of the room. Chuck looks at the image on the screen and feels the air leave his lungs, siphoned out as if by a set of bellows. He wants to shut his eyes against what he's seeing; he wants to pretend that this wasn't happening.

Chuck watches himself onscreen, limp, unconscious, facedown on the same filthy mattress he was sitting on. A man he doesn't recognize walks into the room and carefully shuts the door behind him. The man has a trim goatee and a neat, precise haircut. He's wearing a power suit, all black with grey pinstripes – clear-cut and crisp like the rest of him. In the video, the man strokes a black-gloved hand through Chuck's hair. He cups the back of Chuck's head delicately and turns his lax face to one side. The man pushes his index finger between Chuck's slack lips. He trails his other hand trails down Chuck's back and dips the tips of his fingers into the crevice of his ass.

The sick feeling in Chuck's stomach sharpens, wrenches all thought from his head as he continues to watch. Onscreen, the man - fingers long and spindly, he notices - smiles and works the gloved finger in Chuck's mouth in and out. Then, with a small smile that makes the bile rise in Chuck's throat, the man removes his finger and moves behind Chuck's limp body.

The feed continues to roll and Chuck's horror grows. He's shocked, disgusted - he knows what's going to happen next. Confirming his worst fears, Chuck watches as the man works his spit-slicked, gloved finger into Chuck's ass to the knuckle.

"No no no," Chuck moans, trembling now, his limbs seized with the enormity of what's happening - of what's happened. He clutches his head, presses his palms against his temples, shuts his eyes tight. iDidn't happen, can't happen, oh god oh god.../i A groan onscreen draws Chuck's attention to the television again.

Chuck watches, eyes bright with the type of fear that makes every breath ihurt/i, as the man unzips his fly and pulls out his cock. He tugs off one of his gloves with his teeth and spits on his palm. It only takes a few quick strokes for the man to bring himself to full hardness, chin tilted forward, eyes glued to the almost lazy motion of his hand as he works another finger into Chuck's ass. The man removes his fingers after a few more shoves, sinking them into Chuck's body, well past the knuckles. He lines his cock up with Chuck's hole.

Chuck throws up everything in his stomach as on screen, the man yanks up his hips and works himself into Chuck's ass, pushing his cock deep into his body until the backs of his thighs are flush with his own. He continues to vomit as the video continues to roll, and onscreen, the man grunts and begins to fuck Chuck's limp body in earnest. The man is utterly silent as he repeatedly rams into Chuck's body – the slap of skin on skin of the video feed is the only noise that provides a backdrop to the sound of Chuck's retching.

He throws up until it's nothing but pink-tinged froth.

Onscreen, the door opens and more men enter.

(To be continued…)


	2. Mr Bronze

Casey can't breathe.

The room holds only one focal point for him: the video that's being played over the largest screen in the Castle's main room. His knuckles are white, hands clenched around the back of a chair as he watches Chuck's unconscious body get fucked by several men in grisly, hi-definition. Beside him, Walker's pale face is ashen, her eyes wide and unbelieving. Her mouth hangs slightly open; Casey reads shock and disgust in the twitch of her lips.

Casey wants to kill something - anything - and preferably slowly.

Onscreen, a second man lines himself up and slams his cock into Chuck's bleeding asshole. His face - a face that Casey is going to break with a lead pipe when he finds him - is shiny with sweat. Beads of perspiration roll down his forehead as he throws his head back and comes in Chuck's ass with a few jerky thrusts. When he pulls out, his dick is smeared with semen and blood.

The next man slides into place behind Chuck's unresisting body and grips his finger-bruised hips, wrenching them up. He's already hard and wastes no time pushing himself into Chuck's body to the hilt. Chuck's arms flop useless at his sides, and his cheek scrapes against the mattress with each hard grind of the man's hips.

The worst part of it is the sound. Every wet smack of flesh on flesh, every lewd grunt and loud pant, is heard with crystal clarity from the Bose surround sound. Casey wants to launch himself through the screen when the man fucking Chuck's passed out form, bends over his back and bites into the soft flesh of Chuck's shoulder. He memorizes the man's husky laugh when he draws back, blood on his lips – that one will die first.

Casey turns away, unable to watch any longer. He picks up a paperweight and hurls it against one of the walls with all of his might. It doesn't shatter, it isn't satisfying, but it does leave a deep gouge in the plaster. His fury branches through his veins white-hot and twitches up his spine, searing him from the inside out until every single fiber in his body is wound with tension.

He is going to _brutalize_ every last one of those sonsofbitches. _.one_.

"Casey," Walker says. Her voice is strained; shaken. He's glad she doesn't try to touch him, because he doesn't quite know himself what he'll do. "Casey," she says again. He turns towards her, fixes her with a look that doesn't nearly express all of the rage and emotion roiling within him. He flicks his eyes to the screen, where a fourth man is taking his turn, fucking Chuck's unconscious body for all he's worth - cheeks flushed, mouth open, lips flecked with spit.

"What?" Casey grinds out the word; he can barely think, let alone speak. All that's on his mind is violence. All that he wants to do is get Chuck back. The promise of broken bones is tattooed into the whorls of his palms. He can already feel blood and brain matter caked beneath his fingertips.

Walker pauses the video, freezing the image of the slightly pudgy man coming on Chuck's ass. Casey clenches his teeth so tightly his jaw begins to ache. She hits another button and General Beckman's terse visage appears on a different screen.

"Major Casey, Agent Walker," she snaps briskly, "I assume you've had time to see the video which was sent to us a few hours ago?"

"Yes," Walker replies. Her voice trembles slightly before she can smooth it from her tone. Casey doesn't say anything. He just gives the General a tight nod.

"Good," says Beckman. Her expression is severe, but there's a sort of anxiety in the corners of her eyes that sets Casey on high alert almost immediately. Walker sees it too and leans forward when he does. Before either of them can say anything, the General speaks.

"There's been a development," she says, her tone brusque - all business, brooking no room for questions or arguments. "The people who have kidnapped the Asset have contacted us. From what I can tell they don't realize that he is the Intersect, but I don't expect our luck to last. We need to secure him as soon as possible and assess the extent of the damage."

Casey's hands bunch into fists and he presses his fingernails into the heels of his palms, hard enough to make them bleed. Chuck is nothing more than an _object_ to Beckman. He glances at Walker and sees a similar note of resentment in her expression. It's with effort that he manages to keep his voice neutral, albeit stiff.

"Why have they contacted us, General?" he asks.

Beckman fixes him with a long, hard stare, which he returns impassively. "The man who kidnapped the Asset – I believe you will recognize him as the first man to appear onscreen in the video we were sent – wishes to speak with _you_, Major." She looks away for a moment, glancing thoughtfully at something on her desk, before raising her eyes once more. "I am very interested to hear what Mr. Bronze has to say."

General Beckman presses a button and another image appears on a different screen. The first man from the video, the one who first laid his hands on Chuck, grins at Casey and Walker. His skin is bronzed from the sun. He reveals two rows of straight, white teeth when his lips curl back into a sharp smile.

"Hello Agent Casey," he greets with a slight inclination of his head. "I'm certain you don't recognize me because we've never met. However, I do believe I have something of yours that's rather precious to you, hm?"

There are a number of things that Casey wants to say in response, but he bites them all back even as they rush to escape the cage of his teeth. "Oh?" he asks coolly, folding his arms across his chest, "what's that?"

The man – Mr. Bronze – shakes his head in disappointment. His image disappears and another replaces it.

Casey feels his mouth go dry though he works hard not to show it.

Onscreen a shaky video is being played, as if someone had taken it with his or her cell phone. In the video, he and Bartowski are standing close, chest-to-chest, in the spare cover of an alleyway. Bartowski has his arms around Casey's waist, his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. A silly, happy smile is on his face.

Next to him, Casey hears Walker gasp as in the video, Casey leans down and captures Chuck's mouth in a quick, tender kiss.

The image disappears and Mr. Bronze appears on the screen again. The bastard looks smug. "Don't you know that everyone has an iPhone these days, Agent Casey?"

Casey drops the reserved façade and lets the full force of his fury begin to seep through. His expression hardens. "What have you done with him?"

"Take a look for yourself. A new video link is being sent to you – a live feed."

One of the computers beeps a moment later and Walker rushes over and punches a code into the keyboard. It takes a few seconds, but then a picture flickers to life on the main screen, replacing the still image of Chuck being fucked while unconscious. Casey's relief is short-lived when he registers what he's seeing.

Chuck is sitting on the tile, naked and alone in a shower stall. Casey notes it looks like a one of those communal showers you'd find in a school locker room. Chuck's legs are drawn up to his chest as water pounds down from overhead. He is shaking, though Casey can clearly see the steam rising from his reddened skin. His mouth is moving. Casey can't hear what he's saying.

"What's he saying?" he growls, taking a step closer to the screen. He forces his voice to stay as calm as possible, though as he begins to pick out bruises and small cuts on Chuck's naked body, he finds it hard to maintain a rational tone.

"Oh I beg your pardon, Agent Casey. Let me fix that for you." Mr. Bronze says something to someone off-screen, and suddenly the video feed has sound.

Casey watches as onscreen, Chuck clutches his arms around his knees tighter and whispers, "Casey'll come for me…Sarah too…they have to…please Casey, _please_. Casey god..."

Casey can feel something break within him.

"Do I have your attention?" When Casey doesn't reply, Mr. Bronze smiles. "Good."

Casey turns to him, tearing his eyes away from the image of Chuck rocking himself in the shower. "What do you want?" he asks.

"I want the Intersect, Agent Casey," replies Mr. Bronze. "I want Bryce Larkin delivered to me within a five hour timeframe."

"We don't know where Larkin is," Casey says. It's mostly the truth – he knows there are ways to get ahold of the agent if need be, but he's gone deep undercover. It would be hard to do – even harder within a five-hour time frame.

"That's too bad," says Mr. Bronze with false sincerity. He again gestures to someone off screen. "I think you'll figure out a way."

On the video feed, three men enter the showers. Chuck's head snaps up and he scrambles up, fear in strong in his eyes. He presses himself back against the wall as the three men advance.

"No! NO!" Chuck yells. One of the men removes his belt, sliding it through the loops slowly with the soft rasp of leather against clothe. Chuck erupts into a blind panic. He fights tooth and nail as two of the men lurch forward and wrestle him to the ground. The pin him roughly, face down and spread eagle on the wet tile.

"No more…please…please…." Chuck pleads, half sobbing as the two men hold him tightly and spread his legs wider. The third man doesn't push down his pants as expected. Instead, he wraps one end of the belt around his hand once, just enough to maintain a good grip. He trails the loose end up Chuck's legs and smacks the leather strap against Chuck's genitals, almost gently.

Without warning, he snaps his wrist and lays a perfect stripe across the backs of Chuck's thighs. The leather bites deep, raising a red weal of abused, angry flesh.

Chuck cries out in pain and shock.

Casey says, "I'll give you Larkin."

(To be continued.)


	3. Lion and the Lamb

**Beautiful Obscene: Part 3 - "Lion and the Lamb"**

Chuck has no answer as to how long he lay face down on the cold, wet tile, stewing in the stink of his own sweat, bodily fluids, and fear. He's still in the shower - the sound of cold water pounding down tells him that - but he couldn't tell you when the men stopped beating him.. He couldn't tell you when they simply left, leaving him spread and naked on the floor. It's all an unending loop: the pain, the humiliation - the pain, the pain, _the pain._

Chuck opens his eyes, sees black mold growing in the cracks of the grout a few inches from his nose. He shifts, winces, and lets out a pitiful whimper that sounds alien to his ears. Everything hurts. His back and the backs of his thighs feel as if they'd been flayed open by a fishmonger's knife. There's a slow burn that warms his skin, makes his head hurt and his mouth dry.

He's feverish. He needs to get up, look for a way out. That's what Casey would do.

Chuck can't really bite back the cry of hurt that tears from him when he pushes himself to his hands and knees - everything from the waist down feels torn, raw - and he staggers to his feet. He takes a few steps towards the door, more a drunken lurch in that general direction - before his legs give up the fight and send him crashing back to the tile. Chuck lays there, stunned and stupid as agony sears through him hot, so very hot. It drags its fingers across his body, tearing beneath his skin, lacerating, gouging. And it rips so much deeper than that, sinking down to the marrow of his bones to suck it out to spit it back in. It burns, it burns, and Chuck can't breathe.

His vision greys around the edges, blackens, before the darkness recedes like a shaken Etch-a-Sketch. There's sharp pain in his temples; there's blood in his mouth. When his sight clears fully, Chuck realizes he's staring at a pair of nondescript black dress shoes. He wants to recoil, to push back and get away - anything to put distance between himself and whomever in front of him in those plain, ordinary shoes. He tries to push himself up and back, but his body and mind are at odds.

He's sluggish - too damn slow - and it feels as if lead is cooling in his veins. He wants to vomit and cry all at once when a spasm grips him, bends him double and returns sharp awareness into every torn edge of his body. He's feverish and he is cold. When the stranger laughs - it sounds vaguely familiar though Chuck can't place it in the slip-slide of his mind - he spits a glob of bright red spittle onto one of those clean black shoes.

Casey would be proud.

It's a braver act than what he really feels. Chuck is terrified. He doesn't want any more people to hit him...to rape him. He doesn't want anyone touching him, possibly ever again. He wants Casey. He wants Sarah. He wants to wake up in his own bed, curled in the comforter and stare at the familiar sight of his Tron poster. He wants to wake from this nightmare.

He lifts his head. His mouth is wet and it stings. "Why?" he asks. His voice is a grainy rasp of noise. He sounds as terrible as he feels.

A swift kick in the ribs is all the answer Chuck receives.

"I just don't get what he sees in you, Mr. Bartowski."

Chuck freezes as the voice - he can place it now - rolls over him like a miasma. He shudders and imagines that in his utter revulsion, his skin visibly draws back from his tendons and bones. He knows this man is called Mr. Bronze. He knows this man is responsible for his kidnap and his torture. He knows this man is the one who raped him first.

Chuck begins shaking violently and it's pathetic he thinks, but all the same he's completely helpless to stop it. He flinches back when Mr. Bronze kneels before him and reaches out to card a gloved hand through his damp hair. His touch is gentle, almost sweet. Chuck thinks it's awful - he'd rather be hit than be shown any kindness by this man. He tries to shift away from the unwanted touch, but his body is paralyzed with fear that churns deep in his belly, deadening his limbs.

This man is a monster.

With a quickness that Chuck couldn't anticipate, Mr. Bronze rolls him onto his back and straddles his hips. He screams, hoarse and fouled by the metallic taste of blood in his throat, as the tile comes in contact with his abused backside. He arches off of the floor and chokes on his own scream as the pain intensifies, keen and knife-like in his lower regions. Chuck pants for air, gasps at it, tries to draw it into his lungs but all his world has become is fear and pain. He's forgotten anything else, even how to breathe.

Mr. Bronze reaches forward and pinches his nose tightly until Chuck reflexively draws a breath into his lungs. He breathes deeply and greedily, and then he releases a sob that's been building within him since woke. It's wretched and cracked, shattering in the moist air of the showers like glass. Mr. Bronze smiles at him, sharp and white, his tan skin creasing at the corners of his eyes. "There's a boy," he says, releasing Chuck's nose. He pats one of Chuck's bruised cheeks. "Better now?" he asks.

Chuck can't respond because he's barely listening. He's focused on the ache of his body; he's acutely aware of every imperfection in the tile digging into his torn flesh. He feels Mr. Bronze shift over him. He's aware of the press of the other man's body against his hips and chest - he can feel every thread of fabric as Mr. Bronze's business suit drags across his skin. There's an uneven tile gouging into his right shoulder blade. He can feel dirt collecting in the deep, straight laceration across the backs of his thighs.

When Mr. Bronze kisses him, Chuck finally gives him his full attention.

Mr. Bronze's lips are dry and chapped. The kiss is curiously gentle. It's so very soft, so very delicate, that Chuck feels the bile rise in his throat. It's terrible. Chuck has never wanted to be further away from somebody that he does Mr. Bronze.

He raises his arms heavily and pushes against Mr. Bronze's shoulders, but there is no strength in him. When Mr. Bronze reaches one hand around to cup the back of Chuck's head and deepen the kiss, Chuck pushes harder. "Is this how he kisses you?" the other man asks. The words are pushed through his teeth, making them sound harsh and grating. "Is this what it feels like to kiss John Casey?"

Mr. Bronze's dark eyes are fever bright with the madness of revenge. He's lost all composure, Chuck can pinpoint the instant it snaps: when his pupils recede in a blaze of hate that Chuck knows can't truly be for him. The other man mashes their mouths together and bites his bottom lip until it bleeds.

For the first time, Chuck doesn't know if he'll get out of this alive.

(To be continued...)


	4. Show and Tell

**A/N: **Lo! A plot. ;) I hope you guys are still enjoying it!

**Beautiful Obscene: Part 4- "Show and Tell"**  
***

Casey can't drive the restlessness from his limbs. He's jittery, almost skittish; he knows that's not a good sign. He can barely focus - fuck, he can barely hear his _own_ thoughts, let alone listen to anything Walker or the General has had to say in the last hour. There's so much chatter in his brain, so many different things sparking like livewires through the channels of his mind, that even the current silence of Castle's main room is loud.

One hour in: Bryce Larkin is nowhere to be found.

The air is seething with tension. Walker is staring at the back of Casey's head like she's picking through his brain with sticky fingers, combing through scraps of information he'd rather not share. He only half-doubts that she _can't_ do it; despite her youth, Walker is a damn good agent. It's what makes them work well as a team; it's what tells him that the 47 minutes and 14.5 seconds of tense silence that has fallen between them won't last much longer.

Casey hears Walker shift, hears her clear her throat with a soft noise - just intrusive enough to get his attention. Just intrusive enough to set his teeth on edge and draw his spine straight and rigid, shoulders tensing like a cord had been run across them and wound taut. He doesn't say anything in response; just grits his teeth and continues to ignore her. He instead deliberately continues to disassemble and reassemble the matte black Glock 37 in his hands - same as he's been doing for the last two hours. It's something he doesn't pay attention to - an automatic motion that helps to direct the overflow of violence in his fingers towards something somewhat productive. It's either this or he starts to break everything in Castle, and they'll need all of the equipment functioning if they're going to find Chuck.

He's just slipping the slide back into place and sighting down the barrel for the umpteenth time, when Walker finally decides to make her play. "Casey," she begins, and he can hear the steel in her tone already; the hard edge to her voice that tells him she isn't playing games. It's good, Casey thinks, because he doesn't have time for games either - not when Chuck is being held hostage and tortured. Not when he's alone and Casey isn't there to catch him, to hold him - to spill blood for him.

"What is it?" he grunts. He knows his voice is too low – just a rough stitch of sound, really - but Walker's persistent. She's hardly deterred by the promise of violence lingering in the wake of his words.

She doesn't move from where she's leaning by the monitors, her gaze flicking down automatically to check for any updates on Larkin. Casey is glad for the distance - she's smart enough to recognize the need for it too - but he closes himself off to her prying stare. "How long have you and Chuck been together?"

When she asks she drops her gaze, doesn't look at him.

It's more innocent than what she really wants to say; Casey hears the bite, the resentment in the syllables. He hears the indignant flinch in her tone; the tone of someone whose had time to parse the information thoroughly and has come up wanting. Casey doesn't begrudge her any bitterness, but even so, there's little time for it now. He has little patience for it too; every second they spend sitting and waiting – for any word from Larkin, orders from the General, fucking divine inspiration - Casey finds himself increasingly impatient and sick with a type of desperation he can't yet reconcile within himself.

He returns Walker's steady look with one of his own, a glare that is cold, so cold, and burnt raw like frostbite. "After Ilsa," he replies shortly, and leaves it at that.

It's not enough, he knows that, and for her part it seems Walker didn't expect much more from her opening gambit, either. Still, even thinking about Chuck, even thinking about the relationship he knows he should have ended before it'd begun, makes Casey _ache_.

He hates the feeling, the ache – the pain he can't seem to label or compartmentalize – so he leans back into the comfortable fallback of anger. It's his baseline, but Casey's even barely holding onto that; barely staying put when all he wants to do is charge out of the door, find Mr. Bronze, and play elbow deep in his viscera.

Something must have shown in his expression because Walker's body language changes. Instantly, she's cautious, wary -pitying. She gives Casey a look that makes him feel as if he were a flighty animal she'd trapped in corner. When she speaks, it's with carefully prescribed delicacy. "We'll get Chuck back, Casey. We _will_. Bryce will contact us and we'll plan it from there."

Casey catches the waver in her voice when she says Bryce's name; he sees the lack of conviction in the shift of her eyes.

He doesn't answer, because for bare moment Casey doesn't trust his voice. His throat's rubbed raw by all that he's trying to contain, by the depth of his anger and worry that's crashes within him like a tsunami with nowhere to go. Casey turns away, watches his knuckles whiten when clenches his fingers tightly around the Glock. The metal bites into his palm and provides the sharp relief of pain. It grounds him, clarifies his thoughts – gives him something else to focus on other than…he snaps his head to side, dispels that line of thought.

He and Walker lapse into charged, discontented silence. There are words on his tongue, words that sorely wish to filter through the gaps of his teeth, but Casey's too used to playing his cards face down. He can't find it in himself to spill his deepest secrets to Walker just yet, even if this secret is one that she has a right to. The minutes slide by. He hears Walker suck in a slow breath; he knows what's coming.

"Do you love him?"

It should be a simple answer, Casey thinks, but coming from Walker the question is loaded; explosive. He glances towards her, away, offers her a view of his terse jawline and hard profile as he stares down at his hands. His brow creases; his hands are trembling. Casey holsters his firearm before he can drop it and betray himself, but judging from the way Walker's looking at him, he thinks he's given away too much already.  
"It's none of your business," he grinds out, notes of warning strung between each word.

Casey knows it's exactly the wrong thing to say as he's saying it, but he doesn't care enough to stop himself.

"_Bullshit_," Walker hisses, eyes narrowing.

Back when Casey was still wet behind the ears and young and stupid, he might have found the depth of emotion trembling in Walker's voice intimidating. Not now, though - not while his nerves are chewed so raw. Not when he's just _itching_ to mete out his fury on anything and everyone.

Walker moves in closer, her eyes blazing red-hot. "If you'd been more careful, _told_ me," she begins, "this could have been prevented. We wouldn't have had to watch as Chuck was beaten and raped." And at that Casey's temper snaps, unravels; just _disintegrates_.

He stalks forward, draws up to his full height and crowds into Walker's personal space. His fury builds a curious pressure behind his eyes; it takes effort not to lash out, to shove, push, and to wrap his hands around her shoulders and _shake_. "What are you saying?" Casey growls, biting off each word as he fights to keep his hands steady at his sides.

For a moment, it looks like Walker will back down, but now Casey can see the extent of the concern in her eyes. She's worried. She's guilty. She's sick with disgust. She's as mad as him – mad _at_ him, for that matter. "This man, this Mr. Bronze obviously wants _you_ for whatever reason," Walker says. "If it weren't for you -"

"-don't you _dare_ finish that sentence," Casey snarls, his black mood rearing up, baring its teeth - all keen-edged and rotting. " I will do _anything_ to get him back." Casey forces himself to take a step back, to turn away before he gives into the anger that crowds in his veins.

Walker opens her mouth to respond, her cheeks flushed angrily, when there's a beep from one of the monitors and General Beckman's face appears onscreen. She wastes no time with introductions; Casey notices that despite her harried expression, Beckman's eyes are as hard and unflinching as ever.

"We have an update on the Asset," she says briskly, before pressing a button on her desk. A moment later, Mr. Bronze's faces stares back at them from a different screen. Casey slams his walls down, pushes his fury back as far as he can. He readies himself for anything he might see; for anything he doesn't want to see. Casey folds his arms across his chest and stares at Mr. Bronze's grinning face with a bland, placid expression. He silently counts backwards from ten, jaw ticking with each number, to keep from voicing – in explicit detail – how he was going to remove the bastard's brain through his nose.

Mr. Bronze steeples his fingers in front of him – Casey imagines over a dozen different ways he can break them. "How goes the search for Bryce Larkin, Agent Casey?" asks Mr. Bronze. A corner of his mouth tugs up even higher, yielding the man a decidedly smug expression. From the corner of his eye, Casey sees Walker open her mouth. He beats her to it, cutting gruffly across whatever she had been about to say.

"Larkin's here," he says. The lie fits easily in his mouth, rolls smoothly from his tongue. Walker gives him a sidelong glance but doesn't say anything to contradict him.

Mr. Bronze arches a brow, looks thoughtful for a moment, and says: "Okay _morero_ - show me."

In the back of Casey's mind, something begins to slide and shift, slotting into place, _reminding_ him. His gaze is suddenly sharper; something kin to recognition idles in the distant corners of his mind, waiting for him to take that turn and just _remember_. Fact is, Casey doesn't remember right then: Mr. Bronze is still a stranger. He feels frustration curl through him and grits his teeth. "Tell me where to find you - I'll bring Larkin to you right away." he says. _And break your face in the process._

Mr. Bronze just shakes his head. "I'm afraid that won't work." He leans forward and fixes Casey with a pointed look. "I, however, play a fair game."

Casey didn't believe him for minute, but takes the bait anyway. "Prove it," he says.

Mr. Bronze moves to one side and gives Casey and Walker a glimpse of the room behind him, and he feels his stomach bottom out as he catches sight of Chuck sitting tied to a chair against the far wall of the room. His head bowed forward so that his chin is resting on his chest. He's limp and still, but Casey can just make out the rise and fall of his chest. He's breathing; Casey doesn't acknowledge the relief that floods him.  
Casey takes in the rest of the scene and works to keep his distress from touching his features. The wall behind Chuck and the floor beneath him, has been lined heavy white canvas, the same that might be put down in a room that is being painted. He recognizes it for what it is and from the soft curse that escapes Walker, she does too.

It's a kill room.

Onscreen, Mr. Bronze walks over to Chuck and backhands him hard across the face. Chuck wakes with jerk, looks around disoriented, and immediately flinches back when he finally focuses on Mr. Bronze. The tanned man looks at the camera. His smile has disappeared. "Proof of life, Agent Casey. You have three hours remaining - don't try to bluff me again."

The screen goes black.

Two hours in: Bryce Larkin is nowhere to be found.

(To be continued...)


End file.
